And the week held still more welcome news for us. Wednesday evening Sonny and Trish stopped by on their way to a movie. Sonny had good news, or at least I thought it was.
“The young Lotharios and Stalker Travis pled out,” he announced. “So neither Cindy nor the Wismer boy will have to go through the stress of a trial. Now ain’t that great?”
I saw Cindy close her eyes and take a deep breath. I wondered if she was sending up a prayer of thanks or simply trying not to cry with relief. Possibly both.
“What did they plead guilty to?” I asked.
“All four pleaded guilty to using graphically suggestive and salacious language in public.”
I laughed. “Oh, come on, Sonny, you just made that up—that can’t be a law this day and age.”
“It can and is.” He took a cigarette from my pack, and I didn’t even glare. “Back in 1871 the daughter of one of the bank executives attended a girlfriend’s afternoon tea. Afterward she walks over to the bank and waits for her father to come out so they can stroll home together.”
He finally got the cigarette lit and continued. “She is standing on the sidewalk, leaning on her parasol. A young man mistakes her for a prostitute. He asks her, in apparently explicit words, to let him purchase what he assumes she was selling. The girl beats the man about the head with her umbrella and then goes screaming into the bank, police are duly summoned, and the law went onto the books, where it has dozed ever since.”
“How did you ever know about it?” Sonny occasionally surprised me to the core.
“Oh, partly old records—they can be fascinating, you know. And old newspapers and copies of personal journals the library has hung on to. And sometimes things the old geezers tell you about.”
“Has that law ever been used again?” He had me interested now.
“The latest account I have found was nineteen forty-two, when a drunken Coast Guardsman made essentially the same mistake with a Selectman’s young wife.”
“This is all fascinating,” Cindy added, “but what happened to our four men?”
“Ah, yes. Well the three young guys got six month’s probation, forty hours community service and—what doubtless hurt them the most—one week’s house arrest.”
“And that bastard,Travis?”
“The judge gave him two year’s probation, eighty hours community service and one month’s house arrest. And unofficial word has it, he will keep his job of twelve years, but with a temporary demotion and a transfer up-Cape.”
“Oh, Sonny! That’s nothing!” Cindy sounded furious.
“Cindy, it’s not as light as it may sound,” Sonny explained. “Two whole years of knowing the cops are breathing down your neck gets nerve-racking. Community service is not raking leaves in the park on a lovely autumn day: it’s cleaning the municipal restrooms, picking up trash from the sidewalks and gutters. It’s working the garbage trucks on nice hot days and mopping floors at town hall. And house arrest, I’m told, is no fun at all after the first couple of days. It’s not so much that your house is unpleasant, it’s knowing that you absolutely cannot leave it.”
“And Travis may get rather lonesome there,” Trish added with a wicked grin. “This is off the record, but Mrs. Travis was in our office to see Attorney Frost the other day. Of course, I have no idea as to their conversation,” she said with a simper, “But I believe it is public knowledge, since it was uttered in the reception room, that she is now visiting her mother in Lynn while she ‘does some thinking.’”
Even Cindy laughed at that. “I imagine Mrs. Travis now has the excuse she has been looking for the last twenty years.”
“Sonny, look at the time, we’ve got to run. The movie might actually start on schedule.” Trish got to her feet.
They left, carrying our thanks out the door with them, and we returned to the living room. Cindy turned to me on the couch.
“Sonny is quite the local historian, isn’t he.” Cindy commented.
“He actually does have an intellect,” I agreed. “He’s just afraid someone may notice it.”
“Strange,” she mused, “that’s usually a female trait.”
“In Sonny’s case, I’m pretty sure it is that he feels—perhaps with good reason—that people do not like having cops around who are too bright.”
“What do you think of this judge’s sentencing? Not the young guys, they’ll probably learn a lesson that will hopefully mean something to them. But Travis?”
“Darling, I know Travis put you through hell and upset a number of other people as well. But I think the prosecutor was wise to accept his plea, and the judge was wise in his sentence. Travis is not, in fact, a criminal, he’s a dirty middle-aged man. I really do not think he is dangerous, but loss of job and pension plus a year in a prison might make him so.”
She thought that over. “I suppose.”
“And, m’dear, a trial is no fun, even for the innocent victim. The defense lawyer would make you out an hysterical woman with a thing going on the side with underage Larry Wismer when you got bored having a thing going with me.”
“Alex!” Then she began to laugh. “You’re probably right. Okay, okay. I surrender.”
I thought that was a fine idea, and leaned over to kiss her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I had forgotten earlier this morning to give Cindy the three checks I needed to deposit. It was Friday and I didn’t want them sitting around until Monday. I had learned the hard way not to hold checks from art galleries overlong. Sometimes their cash flow was problematic. It didn’t really matter, I could stop in the bank on the way home from the firing range where I had a high noon appointment.
In order to protect my PI license to carry and my eligibility to be deputized to the Provincetown Police force, I had to spend an hour, twice a year on a firing range. I always forgot the time and had to wangle an appointment whenever they could fit me in—like eight a.m. or four thirty p.m. or noon. Always times I would prefer to be somewhere else. Ah,well…it was my own fault.
Right now it was not quite ten o’clock and Fargo was staring intently at me, trying—I was fairly certain—to implant a thought in my mind. “Beach, Alex, beach. Please, please, please!”
Already there was a sign up in the parking lot, saying “No Dogs on Beach.” In a week or so there would be enough tourists to limit our beach runs to very early mornings. Today—the few people we would encounter would just have to share.
It was the only Ptown law I ever deliberately broke. I knew that, being Sonny’s sister and a sometime fellow cop, I would not be hassled by any patrolling officer unless I did something really bad. But I did not want to take advantage of being “family,” I did not want to embarrass Sonny, and I genuinely thought most laws were logical and good. But when it came to Fargo and tourists and the beach…screw ’em.
When we got to the beach, there were a few cumulus clouds lurking in the distance over the ocean. They would sail majestically in-shore later in the day, but they meant no harm, simply positioning themselves to form the palette for a delicate pink and orange sunset.
Fargo busted up a meeting of loudly protesting gulls. As they flapped over the low surf, he plowed through it, apparently happy in the frigid water. He came out shaking himself and rolled sensuously in the sun-warmed sand.
I got what should be a wonderful shot of a small girlchild stretching out one hand in a gesture of tentative friendship to Fargo, while he bowed to her, forelegs outstretched and hindquarters raised in the universal invitation to play. It looked as if she were knighting him.
What could go wrong on a day like that?
Not much. My session at the firing range actually went well. I tried some headshots and surprisingly made most of them. My other shots were nearly all in the kill range, even with moving targets coming or going in different directions at different speeds.
I had just reloaded my trusty Glock 9mm when the owner/instructor called, “Time’s up, Alex. And—sorry, but I’ve got another appointment,
and he’s here. You done good, kid. Here’s your certification, see you in six.”
I thanked him, and rather than hold up his waiting client still more by taking time to unload the weapon, I merely made sure it was on safe and shoved it in the rear pocket of my jeans.
Driving back to Ptown, I found myself in the beginnings of the weekend traffic and got off onto the old road in Truro, hoping to miss a few of the early-bird tourists. Just after crossing into Ptown I caught sight of Rho Bannister getting into her car. I pulled in behind her, walked up and stuck my head into the passenger’s window.
“All set for the maiden flight of Lobster Airlines?”
“You bet!” She smiled. “I just had to come home and change clothes, I spent the morning putting the old wheel and undercarriage back on, even found a leaky old tire to go with it. And I was filthy.”
“You’re going to use the old parts?” That didn’t sound like Cassie.
“Lord, no!” Rho laughed. “They wouldn’t last a hundred feet at takeoff speed…not that you could get to that speed with one engine. No, this just lets us push it out of the hangar and work in a better light. More room and better air, too. We’re still waiting for the parts to start the real work.”
“Makes sense.” I backed out of the window. “Give Cassie a hug, and safe trip to both of you.”
She gave me a snappy salute and pulled away.
As I started to follow her, I remembered the checks locked in the glove compartment. The bank, Alex, don’t forget the bank. I took the next left turn.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The bank parking lot was crowded early on this Friday afternoon. I had to park in the back and walk around to the big front doors. Inside, people were obviously cashing and/or depositing paychecks, taking out cash for the weekend, paying off loans, whatever. All of the free-form marble stands seemed in use, but toward the back I spotted one where a solitary woman was writing diligently in a small ledger, and figured I could fit beside her.
When I approached, she smiled and waved her hand, indicating stacks of various coins and a few dollar bills.
“Sorry to take up so much room.”
“No problem.” I smiled back. “I just have to endorse a couple of checks.”
“I’m a Girl Scout leader, but I think the bookkeeping for a Fortune five hundred Company is probably simpler.” She sighed.
I started to reply courteously when I noticed Cindy come out of some back office, looking down at a clipboard and making what appeared to be check marks.
Then I noticed three men crossing the area leading to the vault. Two of the men carried pistols that looked like .44 caliber to me, and the fat one carried something that looked like an Uzi.
The vault at Fisherman’s Bank had a history of being open during business hours. Centuries ago it had proved the bank was solvent; now it was tradition. There was a locked brass grille to keep out the curious or the souvenir-takers, and that was it.
It was not as foolish as it sounds. There was only one highway and a choice of two bridges off the Cape. Should robbers have come in a boat, there was a Coast Guard station with cutter and helicopter at the end of the beach.
Unfortunately, I felt, there were no fighter planes at our little airport—for I was now certain this was how the three men I watched would leave the Cape…in Cassie’s plane, quite possibly over her dead body.
But right now Cindy was my worry. She wasn’t watching where she was walking, and she was on a collision course with one of the men headed for the vault. I quietly slid my own pistol out of my pocket.
The woman next to me looked down at my hand and screamed, “A gun! Help, someone, she’s got a gun!”
“Shut up,” I hissed and automatically ducked. I pulled her down with me just as Fatso let fly with the Uzi. Chips of marble pinged and twanged all over the place but the sturdy marble table held, and as far as I knew, neither of us was hurt.
But the woman was still screaming for help. I gave her a kick in the butt. “Close your effing mouth, you idiot! I’m a cop.” I stretched it a little. “And you’re gonna get us killed. One more shriek and I’ll shoot you myself.” Maybe I was just the slightest bit nervous.
But she did shut up and lay moaning softly to herself. It was an improvement.
I peeked around the corner. Oh, dear God! Cindy had walked right into one robber’s arms as he started to shoot the lock off the vault gate. He had her left arm twisted painfully up against her shoulder as he fired three shots into the lock. On the fourth shot it flew apart and the gate swung open.
The man yanked Cindy inside with him, stuffed his pistol in his belt and started pulling at the large canvas bags with one arm.
“Come on, guys, get in here! I need some help.”
Fatso fired off a blast from the automatic for effect and then screamed, “Down, everybody down or you’re dead.” As he ran for the vault I couldn’t see anyone who wasn’t already down. I didn’t know if any were hurt or not.
I looked cautiously around, trying to spot the security men. I saw one of them on the floor. Hurt? Playing doggo? And I saw the third robber backing slowly toward the vault, gun in hand.
He called softly, “Now don’t panic, folks. Just lie quiet. We don’t want to hurt anybody. Just be cool and we’ll be outa here.” He sounded like the “nice guy” on my tape at home, and I was slightly encouraged.
Suddenly an aging security guard appeared from somewhere, walking slowly toward Nice Guy. His hands were held out, palms up, to show he was unarmed.
“All right, son, we don’t want to hurt anyone either, so just give me your gun and tell your friends to put theirs down and you can go. Nobody will hurt you.”
“Shut up, Dad, and lay down. You’re buggin’ me.”
“Now, son, just give me your weapon.” God, what was wrong with him? This wasn’t a kid misbehaving at the prom!
Nice Guy gave it to him, all right—high in the chest. I saw his white shirt turn red in front, and he went down.
Somebody screamed and Fatso treated us all to another spray of lead.
The guy I had decided was Frank bellowed, “Get in here! Now! We don’t have all weekend!”
They got, and I took a moment to look out the large front window. As I had thought there would be, a car was parked in front of the doors, a man sitting in it. The passenger’s front door and both back doors were open, along with the trunk. They were ready to roll. Would they take Cindy with them?
Probably. I imagined their plans had been to grab a female hostage at random on the way out, just in case. Cindy had just offered up herself a little early. Now she was a chip in a poker game I couldn’t see the good guys winning. But I had to think of something. I could not let them leave here with Cindy. If they did, her chances were small. No way was I going to let that happen!
The cops would be here shortly. With Fatso Arnold Schwarzenegger, enjoying his Uzi, bullets would fly and you can bet Frank would have Cindy in front of him.
Think, Peres!
They were moving out of the vault. First, Nice Guy carried out two big bags. Fatso managed one and, of course, his trusty weapon. Frank had let go of Cindy’s arm but had his pistol firmly against her back. He carried a large bag, somewhat clumsily in one hand, as they started across to the exit.
I could shoot him as he passed, but that had two drawbacks: even if I hit him fatally, he might shoot Cindy before he fell, or my bullet conceivably could pass through his body and into hers. I had to get his attention away from her. Stand up and yell? Offer to swap Ms. Scout Leader for Cindy? Then I had my bright idea.
I stood up and fired six evenly placed shots across the top of the enormous plate glass window that covered almost the entire front of the bank. It came down in a swooshing, crackling sheet as graceful as a theatre curtain. Small pieces of glass covered the floor.
I screamed, “Cindy run, turn left!” I meant her to turn left outside the doors. The getaway car was parked to the right of the front doors. I was parked to
the left. As the glass fell, Frank looked up at our window-fall, and his gun drifted off to the right. Cindy was already skittering across the glass. She slipped and went down on one knee but was up like a bird. She flung open one of the big doors as if it weighed a pound and was outside and turning left.
Then I fired again. Frank dropped his gun and grabbed his wrist. He lost his balance and fell. Had I really shot his gun out of his hand? I had been aiming for the middle of his back. Surely I wasn’t that shaky! I ran after Cindy, slowing as I passed Frank to kick his gun away. He was getting up as I went through the door.
I caught up with her at my car, we jumped in. I finally got the key into the ignition and we were away, the getaway car ahead of us and turning onto the street. I thought I heard sirens, but didn’t want to wait. There was Cassie, you see. And Rho.
As I raced a couple of blocks down Bradford and then turned to get over to Route Six, I said, “I think my cell phone is in the compartment. Call Cassie.”
“Number?” she asked. I told her and she dialed. “Cassie, Cindy. Hold a minute.”
She turned to me. “Tell her what?”
“Her seafood charter just robbed the bank and shot it up and are headed for the airport. They are very, very dangerous. They will be there in six or seven minutes. Run or hide. Do not—repeat not—let them find you.”
She quoted me just about verbatim and hung up. Noticing she was shivering, I turned on the heater. I was sweating. “Now call Nacho, give her the scoop and ask for backup. I’ve only got six shots left.” She made the call, put the phone back and pulled out a packet of tissues I keep in the compartment.
It was then I noticed her pants leg was bloody. “Darling, you’re hurt!” She was busy trying to staunch the blood and not having much luck. “Are you shot?”
“No. Just a cut from the glass. I’m okay. Thanks to you, angel, although I doubt Choate Ellis will be calling you angel when he sees his prized window.” We both laughed and she leaned her head against my shoulder for a moment and I felt wonderful.
Murder Takes to the Hill Page 24